For Love of You
by drama-princess
Summary: Love is not always enough to overcome death. . . .or indifference. On a moonlit night, Satine, Christian, and his wife Katherine all long after the one they love. Work in progress.
1. Katherine

For Love of You  
  


A/N: This wasn't made-- it grew out of a late night and reading too many star-crossed love stories. It's a songfic is set to Mystic Night by Loreena McKinnett, and is an absolutely *beautiful song* You can hear it at http://www.quinlanroad.com-- it's also on the Possession trailer. Satine and Christian belong to Baz. Katherine Everett belongs to me, as does her last name. My, aren't I possessive?   
  
Dedication: To Norah and Dia, two wonderful writers who never fail to amaze me.   
  
  
He slept fitfully on nights like these, whispering names that had long fallen into silence, twisting under their cool sheets as if he was burning with a fever. Sometimes he would turn to her in his sleep, caressing and kissing her with a fervour that had never passed into their lovemaking.   
  
Katherine stayed stiff as her husband dreamed of _her, _as she always had. When his hands slipped over to her body, she would gently put him off and turn away, her eyes burning with unshed tears. Occasionally her chin would quiver and she would give a few dry sobs, but her natural reserve usually remained triumphant.   
  
She knew all about _her,_ the courtesan whose name was still in his heart. He had told her the entire story-- simply, without reserve or hesitation when they had first become friends. When he began to court her a year later, she rarely thought of the woman. _She _was simply part of those few faded years in Montmarte. Important, certainly, but Katherine had wanted no passion. She would gladly play second to the beauty for a good home and kind husband. It was far better to play a loving wife than a poet's mistress.   
  
But when he whispered _her _name as he lay with his wife, the cold tendrils of jealousy had snaked into her heart. Her love for him had grown as far as he would let it-- a warm affection, a tender regard. But he stood before her, blocking every entrance to a love she now desperately craved. Even now that she was carrying his child, he still gave her the polite care he always had.   
  
Her voice was a rich alto that sang the gentle ballads of England well, but Christian never wrote poems comparing it to an angel's song. And while all the sewing circle envied her mass of golden hair and soft grey eyes, her husband only smiled at compliments about his lovely wife. Katherine never missed the wistful glances at a flash of red hair or the deep azure eyes. He bought her pearls, never diamonds, although he knew she loved the stone. And those epic poems that everyone admired her for, the verses that proclaimed endless passion for the woman he adored. . . he never once thought of Katherine when taking ink to paper.   
  
She rose from the bed, feeling the covers slide away from her in a soft whisper of fabric. The moonlight fell in pale shafts across the floor, lending a melancholy air to the room. Katherine glanced up and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her mouth twisted, and she closed her eyes, her breath heaving against her hand. Her thickening waist was apparent in the plain nightgown that rose to closely encircle the base of her neck. The shadows under her eyes had deepened over the past few nights, Katherine reflected dispassionately, taking her hand away to study the reflection. Rag curlers lay in a prosaic oval around her face, a flat braid contained the rest of her hair.   
  
She turned away from the mirror, reaching for her rose kimono. Christian had never liked it since she had brought him home, so she wore it but rarely. But she loved it, loved the watery silk against her skin. In forbidden, illicit moments when she dreamed that Christian whispered her name in fevered kisses, she wore only that.   
  
She kept the nightgown on tonight, and walked out to the balcony. The door slid open silently enough for Christian to stay in his dreamworld. She stood on the edge before the railing, her fists balled together, nails digging into the vulnerable flesh of her palm. Katherine watched the night impassively. She restricted her thoughts to topics, the baby blankets she would hem tomorrow, the dinner arrangements for next Thursday.  
  
Christian kept drifting into her heart. . . his smiles, his gentle kisses. Katherine shook her head, bemused in spite of her aching soul. She'd never believed in love until she'd found herself absorbed in every aspect of her husband. Now she craved his touch, even while knowing that he would never return her love with anywhere near the same force.   
  
Clouds shifted over the moon, and Katherine shivered. The chilly night air rippled over her body, infusing the thin silk with its presence. She looked down at her hands, plain and square. Yet another failing-- _her_ hands had been white and slender. Katherine shut her eyes against the softer starlight. She didn't like it when the moon's luminous cast over the land faded. . . it was too . . . lonely.   
  
The words of an old ballad came to her lips then, and she hummed a few bars before singing the hallowed words. She could faintly remember her old grandmother soothing her to sleep with those songs, and they always brought her comfort. They evoked ancient memories that were her own, and not her own, a deep well of instinctive knowledge lodged in her soul. Memories of great loves, of places she had never been to.   
  
A clouded dream on an earthly night, Katherine sang softly, letting the music wash out the pain with a milky haze of lyric. Hangs upon the crescent moon. A voiceless song in an ageless light sings at the coming dawn. The breeze picked up again, picking up the leaves that had fallen from the trees and blowing them in gentle circles over the ground. On impulse, Katherine let her braid free, drinking in the feeling of the wind ruffling through her hair. It felt like she'd always imagined flying to feel.   
  
Birds in flight are calling there, where the heart moves the stones. It didn't seem fair that she should stay in the narrow part of Christian's heart, reserved for mortal beings like her. How could she compete with a stainless angel who never felt ill or too large, never had to mend his jacket pockets? Why settle for prose when poetry was only a moment of inspiration away?   
  
Katherine and Christian would never dance across the sky while he sang to her. They would never read poetry together in the first flush of dawn, or simply lie together, feeling each other's hearts beat.   
  
No matter how much she craved his love, he would never give it to her. Not out of cruelty, not out of dislike. Just because he couldn't. It was no longer his to give.   
  
It's there my heart is longing for, all for the love of you. 


	2. Christian

Chapter Two: Christian  
  
_Satine stood before him, her slim figure swathed with the petal pink silk robe she favoured. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders in soft ringlets that rested on her back. Her full lips hinted shyly at a smile as she caressed his chest. He flushed with desire, but stayed silent even as Satine tugged at his hand, bringing him along with her into the shadowed background behind her. The forest was a darkened grey-green with mossy floors, black tangles of branches reaching out for his heart. He tried to protest and draw his hand back, but Satine paid no heed to his muted cries.   
  
She began to run, ignoring the way the forest caught her fragile gown and tore it away from her. Her hair flowed out in a stream of fire, her delicate feet dancing some exotic pattern over the rocks that caused Christian to bleed. Thorns did not touch her. She stayed perfect, whole, like some artist's vision of Venus rising from the wake of crested waves.   
  
He finally brought her to a stop in a tiny hollow, green with the perfumed ferns and scattered white flowers. She turned to him, her cheeks flushed as if the pall of death had been grotesquely inverted. Her voice echoed strangely in the quiet of the night's music.  
  
What do you want, Christian? She smiled as she said it, but kept her eyelashes lowered onto her cheeks. Her skin felt thin and stretched beneath his hands, her body too fragile to be kissed and caressed into the flame of passion. She raised a finger to his jaw, tracing the curve of it, and smiled again. Teasingly, this time, and with the faintest resignation dulling the joy.   
  
Your happiness, he answered.   
  
The hesitation vanished, and Satine pulled away. She wrapped her body around the slim trunk of a birch tree, her eyes opening to meet his in a flash of deep sky over twilight. She pressed her fingers to her lip, as if intending to blow a kiss.   
  
She drew the hand away with horror, looking down at the stain of blood that slowly flowed from her crimson lips. Her eyes flickered up to meet Christian's once again, and in them he thought he could see the answer to his unspoken question.   
  
Yes, I'll come.   
  
_Christian woke abruptly, feeling beads of sweat condense over his shivering body. He wiped his forehead before the moisture could begin to trickle down like salt tears from an unhealed wound. On impulse, his hand slipped out to try and hold onto his wife, but he met only empty air.   
  
Katherine was gone, her covers folded back neatly from where she had left the bed. His head turned to study the imprint of her body, where the hollow her rounded stomach had left still sank into the mattress. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he put out his hand to test the warmth.   
  
None.  
  
Wherever she was-- probably in the kitchen with some warm milk to calm the nausea she continually suffered from-- she had left long ago, and had not cared to return since then. Christian settled back down to his side of the bed. He drew the blankets closer, hoping to infuse his body heat into them.   
  
Nights seemed so cold lately. _  
  
_Part of it, no doubt, was Katherine's new state. He was afraid to touch her. . . she had become so fragile since the discovery that was with child. Her newfound delicacy frightened him. The violet shadows written on her face by sleepless nights reminded him too much of the bruises on Satine's skin when her illness had progressed too far to not leave a mark on her body. Her eyes looked deadened constantly, as if she repressing some pain that cut her to the heart.   
  
How many times had he awaken in the middle of the night to find Katherine huddled on the side of the bed, her elbows sharp and unyielding towards him? He had tried, once, to gather her in his arms when he found her so, but the involuntary cry that Katherine had given was enough to dissuade him from trying that again.   
  
Christian sighed softly and relaxed into the mattress. And then there were the dreams. . . Satine, coming to him again and again, dreams he hadn't had for years. These dreams, though, were more violent, with an undercurrent of passion that made him uneasy. Blue eyes, staring coldly at him from behind a veil of fire. Diamonds falling as encrusted drops of rain, making her bleed from her mouth. And then, this dream.   
  
No. Don't think about it.  
  
But was she trying to tell him something? He'd never been much of a believer in Spiritualism, but the dreams were so vivid that he dared to think that it might actually be the lingering ghost of the woman he loved.  
  
Had loved.  
  
No. Ridiculous to tell himself lies. He had to tell more and more to Katherine each day. About how he had slept, what he was writing about. He didn't want to worry her with his horrible fancies. Especially since she would merely respond with her impassive grey-eyed stare as he tried to explain himself.   
  
A stab of hurtful pain went through him, one that he carefully ignored. Katherine was who she was. Cool, calm, and reserved. There were no depths of feeling to touch in her, no way that she could accept anything more than the gentle affection that she permitted in their marriage.   
  
He could never once recall Katherine wearing the rich colours and beautiful fabrics that Satine had favoured. Her dresses were white organdy and silver poplin in the summer, black cashmere and muted green in the winter. Katherine rarely wore her hair loose, even to bed. Satine--  
  
Stop it, Christian murmured angrily to himself. When they had first become engaged, Katherine had brought up the subject of Satine. She had plainly inquired if he meant to compare the courtesan of Paris with the young English girl, and he had reassured her. Katherine had nodded, in a completely businesslike fashion, and gone on to just as calmly discuss the guest list. His vague sense of amazement at her rational approach to his past love had stayed with him into their marriage. Most of the time her analytical nature was tempered by the sweetness and kindness of her disposition, but occasionally her amiable side vanished and she seemed heartless.   
  
Don't you ever feel? Christian had once inquired sarcastically in one of their rare arguments. He remembered the way Katherine's face had gone white except for two flushed spots burning on her cheeks. Always icy in her rage, she had turned and left the room, letting the door swing shut in silence. Katherine never slammed objects or screamed, but instead left him and went to the sewing room or kitchen, where he found her absorbed in some tedious task when his own anger had cooled.   
  
Sighing, Christian left the warmth of the bed for his desk. It did not do to mull over resentment about faults, he told himself firmly. Katie was a dear, sweet woman. His wife, and the mother of his child. He was far happier with her in their clean, middle-class home than he had been in that broken garret in Montmartre, seeking solace in the blur of absinthe. Katherine was intelligent and literate, moderately religious, and supportive of his writing in ways that no one else _(except Satine)_ had ever been.   
  
It was hardly just to compare a pearl to a diamond.   
  
He would write a poem for _(not about)_ Katie, see if he could bring a smile to her gentle face. Bring her a bouquet of carnations _(never roses), _or arrange a day (_no picnic)_ in the countryside.   
  
He pulled out the chair and drew out a sheet of paper, his mind already forming the words. His troubles seemed to bleed away as he put ink to paper, letting his poetry flow out of his heart. This was the writing that had saved him from himself during the dark times following _(Satine's death) _his stay in Montmartre. If he hadn't _(told our story) _kept up with his writing, he most likely would have followed Toulouse into alcoholism and insanity.   
  
He hummed quietly as he wrote, a sweet melody that stole into the waiting room like an unwanted love. The words, taken by themselves meant nothing, but as he strung them together in a delicate creation of a poem, he began to shiver. As he continued to write, it had acquired a touch of melancholy, tugging at his soul like a song long unheard but always desired.   
  
A painting hangs on an ivy wall, nestled in the emerald moss. The eyes declare a truce of trust and then it draws me far away. Tears stung in his eyes, and he wiped them angrily away-- this certainly hadn't been what he'd had in mind when he'd began to write, but somehow the song had to continue. The show had to go on.   
  
When deep in the desert twilight sand melts in pools of sky. When darkness lays her crimson cloak, your lamps will draw me home.   
  
Christian rose impatiently, and with a single, vicious twist of his hands, tore the paper in two. He'd take one of his old love poems for Satine that he'd never shown his wife, change a few words, and give it to her with some flowers. It didn't matter. Satine haunted every word he wrote. It was all for the love of her.   



End file.
